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“Flowers!” I corrected, sucking in a long, deep breath as I felt my heart skip with excitement. “A few years ago, I developed this addiction to flowers. Not as much the growing part but more so the arranging and sharing with others part. My plan is to have one of those little stores on a street just like this in the more colonial parts of town. Old but with so much Boston character, a little stoop, the outside overgrown with flowers, and a bright blue door with a sign hanging outside that says Seedlessly Yours.”
I swear lately I’d been rambling on at anyone who would listen about my obsession with flowers and the shop I was going to own one day. Aspen unfortunately caught most of it, but I couldn’t help but want to scream it from the rooftops.
For the most part, I knew they just entertained my enthusiasm. Most of them probably not even believing that it was achievable, but I just didn’t care.
Flowers got me through one of the hardest times of my life. And sharing them with others, hoping they might do the same—well, it made my heart sing.
Drake didn’t answer but instead watched me silently with a quiet smirk that only made this man so much more attractive.
I cleared my throat and slumped back against the hard wooden booth seat. “Sorry, I tend to say too much and get a little overzealous.”
“Never apologize to anyone for being passionate about something,” he answered, his words filling my chest again after feeling like it had begun to deflate. “Passion is something not everyone has. People can love something, they can get excited about something, but passion is soul-consuming. If that’s how you feel, fuck everyone who doesn’t support you, and fuck them even more if they try to get in your way.” His words came out harsh, his tone gruff, but I couldn’t explain the warmth they seemed to spread through me.
Not exactly your typical motivational speech, but I could tell it was real and honest.
No sugarcoating.
No censor.
“Why flowers?”
“Because flowers have more power than I think people understand,” I answered without even having to take a breath to think about it.
Flowers can say so much when words aren’t an option or they’re too hard.
I love you.
Thank you.
I’m sorry.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Brian pleaded, tears in his eyes as he sat beside my hospital bed, the box of chocolates he’d brought with him laying at my feet. “I’m sorry. Just come home, please. I can’t be without you. It’ll be different. I swear.”
Always chocolates.
Never flowers.
Why did he never bring me flowers?Probably because he was never really sorry.
“Cassidy?” A hand brushed over mine, and I flinched back, pulled from my daydream with a gasp. Drake stared across the table at me with concern, his eyes flickering over my face and even extending to my arms and body as if he was scared I was hurt. “You okay?”
“You wanna get some pizza?”
His face quickly transformed from concern to confusion. “Didn’t we just get engaged so we could have free drinks?”
Grabbing my wine glass, I tossed back the entire contents and placed it back on the table and threw my bag over my head before sliding out of the booth and holding out my hand. “Come on, it’s just around the corner, and the pizza is amazing.”
His eyes shifted from me, to his glass, to my hand, then back to his glass. “Fuck it…” he mumbled to himself before swallowing probably about a twenty-dollar glass of Hennessy. He slammed the empty vessel down on the table and, much to my surprise, slid out of the booth and grabbed my hand, our fingers naturally intertwining.
I glanced down, though he continued toward the door with a quick wave to the staff.
The butterflies were back, and they stirred deep in my stomach.
I tried to get them to calm down, but as we strolled up the street toward Romano’s Pizza Place, they fluttered harder when we stepped out of The King’s Line, and he moved around me, his hand sliding across my back as he positioned himself on the street side of the sidewalk. It was a weird thing to get excited about, but I’d seen guys do it in movies, a subtle move but one that showed they wanted to keep the woman safe by being between her and the traffic.
His hand stayed there on the small of my back for the rest of the walk, moving only once to hook through the belt loop at the back of my shorts and tug me backward when I tried to cross the street while in the midst of telling a dramatic story—his reaction keeping me from getting smushed by a Corvette.
I guess the liquor only impaired one of our reflexes.
